


Would You Call Me By Another Name

by Liralen



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Babysitters, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Sex Shop, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Alternate Universe - Veterinarians, Alternate Universe - Vineyard, M/M, injured animal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of unrelated au one-shots and drabbles based on prompts from my <a href="http://fromcainwithlove.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a>. Unbetaed, unedited, just an exercise in writing. Pairings and other tags will be updated as I add stories.</p><p>one:  louis/liam, amateur night at the strip club<br/>two: liam/harry, awkward encounters in a sex shop<br/>three: niall/harry, rival performers at open mic night<br/>four: niall/louis, emergency animal hospital<br/>five: niall/harry, harvest season at a vineyard<br/>six: liam/harry, kissing booth<br/>seven: louis/liam, babysitters</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. lilo: stripper au

Liam should’ve dug his heels in the moment Louis pulled him out of his chair. He probably should have dug his heels in the moment the lads announced the night’s plans involved hitting up a strip club, honestly, or when he saw the sign outside that read _"Friday 9-10 – Amateur Hour!"_ , but he _really_ should have drawn the line when Louis took hold of him by the shoulders and said, “Alright then Liam, let’s see what you’ve got!”

He tried, a bit, but there was a lot of alcohol swimming around in his stomach and gumming up the better mechanics of his brain, and Harry gamely offered to join him, which made a hilarious enough picture that Liam was momentarily distracted giggling, and suddenly Louis was propelling them both backstage where a lady was taking down names and handing out costumes. Louis gave his name and grabbed an outfit before Liam could even finish spluttering out a protest, and that’s how he finds himself in a curtained-off cubicle holding a plastic helmet and the tiniest pair of brick red pants he’s ever seen.

"I am _not_ wearing this in front of other people.” Liam pitches his voice to carry to where Louis has stationed himself outside the changing cubicle, in case Liam tries to escape.

"Too late, I already gave her your name," Louis says. "You can’t back out now. They’ll call for Fireman Liam and no one will show up. Everyone will be so disappointed. You can’t let the crowd down, Liam."

 ”Watch me,” Liam mumbles, even as he’s folding his clothes into a neat pile and sliding off his boxers. He holds the pants up again and shakes his head – it’s not a thong, at least, but the briefs are made of some spandex blend and they’re _shiny_. “This is ridiculous. I’m going to look _ridiculous_.”

"You’re supposed to look ridiculous." Louis’s voice sounds close, like his mouth is almost touching the curtain between them. It brings a flush to Liam’s face that he blames on the alcohol. He’s still swaying on his feet, marginally sobered by the recent turn in events but still fairly well trashed. "It’ll be a laugh, and anyway, you can’t possibly look sillier than Harry. He’s got a cowboy hat and a gold sheriff’s star sticker over one nipple."

"Heeeey," Harry complains mildly. "Don’ make funna my star. It’s nice. Y’gotta respect the law, Lou."

"C’mon Liam," Louis says, a sharp needling in his voice, "don’t be so bloody _boring_.”

Liam can feel himself bristle at the familiar complaint – _boring, stick-in-the-mud, so bloody sensible –_ and he’d really like to tell Louis to sod off right now, can feel it on the tip of his tongue, but it’s like the alcohol has turned all his brains signals to reverse. Instead of spitting out a reply he finds himself pulling the tiny briefs on, blush climbing his neck as he neatens the hems and tries to find a way to tuck his dick that doesn’t make it look quite so _obscene_. There isn’t really a way, because that’s exactly what the pants were designed for. He settles the red plastic fireman’s hat on his head, elastic digging under his chin, and wishes desperately for a mirror, just to see if he looks as dead foolish as he feels.

"Liam? Are you still in there? You haven’t passed out and choked on your own vomit have you?"

"You can’t laugh," Liam says, and is not reassured by Louis’s chuckle. "I’m serious. If you laugh I’m changing straight out of it. This was your bloody idea, _you_ should be wearing this thing.”

"I’m not sure the world is ready for my bum in spandex," Louis says, with a thoughtful tone, like he’s really evaluating the effects his arse might have on humanity. Considering the effects it regularly has on Liam’s sanity just covered in denim, it’s probably worth thinking through.

"We won’t laugh," Harry pledges sincerely. "Honest. If Louis does, I’ll knee him in the bollocks."

"Get near my bollocks and I’ll smack you into next weekend," Louis swears. Then, "For fuck sake Liam, enough!" and he’s tearing back the curtain, leaving Liam startled and blinking at them both.

Neither of them laughs. Harry’s mouth twitches up in a grin, but it isn’t a mean sort of smile, it’s more like – impressed, maybe. Probably he thought Liam wouldn’t have the guts to do it. Louis’s face is absolutely blank.

"So, um," Liam says. He tips the plastic hat back a bit to rub at his forehead. "Yeah, this is ridiculous."

"A bit," Harry admits, "but at least you don’t have anything stuck to your nipple." He gestures to the gold sticker on his chest. Harry’s pants are also gold and no less tight, but they’ve got a bit of fringe hanging from them that sways when he moves. He looks at least as silly as Liam, which is comforting.

Liam glanced back at Louis. “Louis?”

Louis startles like he’s been woken from a dream. “You look hilarious,” he says, a bit hoarsely. “Is that the biggest pair of pants they had? That’s almost too graphic even for this place. It looks like your dick’s gonna pop right out. Go on, give us a twirl.”

Liam can feel the flush right up to his ears. His head is fizzy with liquor and heat, bubbles popping behind his eyes. “Are you taking the piss?” he asks uncertainly.

"No," Louis snaps. He clears his throat, but his tone still comes out tight, tense. "You should try a few moves, make sure everything stays in place. Don’t want a wardrobe malfunction, do you?"

And that’s – that’s pretty much the only thing Liam can think of that would make this _more_ humiliating, the idea of his dick somehow getting free while he’s on stage for the whole world to see, or at least the few dozen people in the club. Holding his breath, he screws up his courage and gives a tentative hip thrust, and then a swivel, shimmying a little and then bending his knees into a grind to see if the elastic stays in place.

"Harry," Louis says, his voice a bit high, "I think they just called for Sheriff Styles."

Harry frowns. “Really? I didn’t hear – “

"Bloody hell, Harry, _they’re calling for you_ ,” Louis snaps.

Harry blinks slowly. “Oh,” he says. “Ohhhh, right, I hear it now, sorry, I need to…” He trails off, gesturing vaguely, and then turns and runs off.

Liam shifts under the look Louis’s giving him. He’s always unnerved to have Louis’s attention, because it usually means he’ll get a pinch or a slap or a comment about how stupid his hair looks, but there’s an intensity to Louis’s gaze now that’s different to how he usually looks at Liam, new in a way that makes something flutter in Liam’s chest.

"They’ll probably be calling me soon," Liam says weakly. "I guess I should – "

"You’re not going out there dressed like that."

The fluttering thing in Liam’s chest falters and loses altitude. He drops his head, grimacing down at himself. “Right,” he says. “Should’ve known you were just taking the piss, of course it looks ridiculous – “

"You’re the least ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen."

It’s heated and low, a tone that jerks Liam’s head up, has him gaping in wonder. “What?”

Louis’s expression matches his tone, predatory and hot, though a bit of fond exasperation creeps into his smile. “Christ, you’re an idiot. Fucking lucky for me, too.” He hadn’t noticed at first, but Louis’s slowly advancing on him, closing the distance between them until they’re touching, the crisp cotton of Louis’s button-down brushing Liam’s bare chest. “If you had any idea how hot you look, you’d go out there and dance for everyone to see, and then I’d have to fight everyone in this place to take you home.”

Louis keeps coming, forcing Liam back into the changing stall. The bench hits the backs of his knees and he sits abruptly. “Oh,” he says dumbly on a rush, the breath knocked out of him. Louis reaches back blindly and pulls the curtain shut, and the bright feeling in Liam’s chest soars. “Oh. _Really?_ ”

"Idiot," Louis repeats, and for all that he’s called Liam one a thousand times before, for the first time Liam hears the fondness behind him. He smiles a little, and Louis rolls his eyes, straddles Liam’s lap and kisses him _hard_.

They call for Fireman Liam three times out on the stage, but he’s too busy kissing Louis to hear his name. Maybe later Liam can give him his own private show.


	2. lirry: adult bookstore au

It isn’t that the guy is good-looking, although he is. A lot of good-looking men visit sex shops, actually; or at least, a lot of good-looking men visit the sex shop Harry works at. And it isn’t that the guy is quiet and awkward and obviously painfully embarrassed, his face glowing a warm orangey red for the whole ten minutes he’s been studying their selection of cock rings, which is really about eight more minutes than the display deserves.

(Seriously, their inventory is just _sad_. Harry keeps trying to tell Caroline that they need to beef it up, but it’s always, ‘blah blah display space’ and  ‘blah blah investment returns’ and ‘blah blah don’t say the word cock in front of the baby’ which, seriously. Brooklyn isn’t even old enough to know what that means. If she doesn’t want her daughter exposed to these things, she shouldn’t own a sex shop. Or she shouldn’t leave Brooklyn in Harry’s care while she goes on coffee runs, because sometimes she gets cranky without her mum and the only way to quiet her down is to let her play with the giant purple novelty dildo. She seems to like bonking Harry in the nose with it.

 _Anyway_.)

It isn’t for any of those reasons that the guy sticks out in Harry’s memory. It’s the fact that this is the third time in three weeks he’s been in the shop, and each appearance has been on the same day, Tuesday, at the same time, quarter after three.

Quarter after three on a Tuesday is a slow time for a sex shop. It’s too late for people to browse after lunch, and too early for anyone to be done with work. And whereas he gets a lot of customers on the weekend, and the days building up to the weekend, hardly anyone feels like planning a sexy escapade on a Tuesday afternoon. Mostly they just want to put their heads down and get through the inertia of the front end of the work week. That’s what Harry wants to do.

Or, that’s what he usually wanted to do, until the good-looking, awkward, blushy guy studying the cock rings started showing up.

The first time he visited, he ran off nearly as soon as Harry swung by to ask if he needed any help. The second time Harry kept his distance, lingering over his tea behind the counter as the guy wandered the small store, until it had been 15 minutes and he had nothing but crumbs left and the guy still hadn’t picked up a single item. He approached cautiously then, leaving a bit more space between them as he cleared his throat.

"Hi, is there something I can help you find? It’s fine if you’re just browsing, only you look like maybe you’re looking for something."

The guy spun on his heel, the blush only brightening in his cheeks, but he didn’t run away, at least. “Er, no,” he stammered. “I mean, yes, or — no, I’m not looking for anything specific, I — ” He cut himself off and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “Sorry. It’s silly, but, I’ve never been in a store for — like this, and when my friend found out he dared me to come in here. That’s, uh,” the guy coughed, “that’s why I was here the other day. Only he didn’t believe I’d done it, so now I have to buy something to prove it.”

He screwed his face up in apology like he expected Harry to yell and throw him out for wasting his time. Harry just laughed. “It’s okay, man,” Harry told him. “Like, fully half the people who come in here are just doing it to have a look round and a laugh. Comes with the territory.”

"Still, I’m sorry for bothering you," the man apologized.

Harry leaned back and took a long, exaggerated look around him at the empty shop. “Well, you are distracting me from the clamoring throng of customers,” he said dryly.

The guy was still blushing quite hard, but he broke into a laugh. “Fair point,” he conceded. “So, uh, is there anything around here I can use for proof that isn’t too expensive, and isn’t too, uh…”

"…sexy?" Harry grinned at the guy’s nervous chuckle and couldn’t stop himself from throwing out a wink. "We’ve got some chocolate lollies shaped like phalluses for 50P. I’ll even put it in a plain black bag, nice and authentic."

"I’ll take it," the guy said, following Harry up to the register where they kept the novelty candies. "What’s a phal — oh."

Harry grinned, giving the dick-shaped lolly a twirl before dropping it in a small bag and exchanging it for the 50P piece the guy handed him. “Sure there’s nothing else I can get for you?”

"No, that’s great, thank you — " The guy paused, gaze darting down to Harry’s name tag. " — Harry."

"Any time," Harry said. And then as the guy left, because he just couldn’t help it, "Please come again!"

So that had been that, and Harry figured he’d never see Mr. Quarter After Three again. Except here he is for the third time, right on schedule, eyeing up the shop’s meager selection of cock rings.

"Your friend needs to think of a new dare," Harry says, coming to stand next to the guy. He doesn’t startle so much this time, just a small hitch when Harry speaks up. He shakes his head and aims a rueful smile at the floor.

"It’s not that," he says. "It’s, um. It’s my girlfriend?"

He says it like a question, darting a glance up at Harry. Harry nods, trying to arrange his face into something gentle but not sympathetic. There’s nothing wrong with a girl wanting to spice things up a bit or shore up weak points in the bedroom, but he knows a lot of guys can feel like it’s a personal failing. He doesn’t want to make the guy any more embarrassed than he already is.

"So, are you looking for something in particular?" He glances at the cock rings hanging from the wall. "Do you want something to help with stamina? Help you last a bit longer?"

The guy blinks blankly. “How’s that?” he asks. Then he follows Harry’s gaze, and his fading blush resurges. “Oh! Oh, um, no. That’s…er, that’s never been a problem.”

"Okay." Harry nods. "Probably wouldn’t recommend a cock ring to start off, then." He watches with fascination as the blush spreads to the guy’s ears. "How about some extra stimulation for her, then? We have a great selection of vibrators, all shapes and sizes. Even some that fit over your finger so you can use them while you’re — "

He stops talking, then, because the guy is backpedaling, hands up and eyes nearly squinted shut. “No, no, I’m sorry — I can’t — um, I mean, I have to run, I just— ” He backs into a spinning tower of DVDs, knocking several free, and actually makes a _squeak_. “Sorry! Sorry, I have to go, I — sorry — “

And then he’s gone.

Harry sighs. Disappointed, he crouches down to collect the errant DVDs. “That could have gone better,” he tells the actress on the front of _Naughty Nurses IV._ She seems to agree, although she’s pretty preoccupied with sucking on a stethoscope — hey, has he seen this one yet?

—

One week later, Tuesday, quarter after three. Harry tells himself he isn’t waiting, tells himself after the last disastrous encounter he’ll never see the guy again, but his nerves jump when the bell over the door rings.

When the guy walks in, Harry feels a tension he didn’t even know he’d been carrying ease.

He doesn’t look up from his jam butty, risking looking rude so he doesn’t drive the guy away. He eats as slowly as he can, trying to appear entirely preoccupied, but he can only make the butty last so long. He dusts his hands off after the last bite, and he’s casting about for something to do when the guy speaks up.

"Aren’t you going to ask me if I need any help?"

Hesitant, Harry looks up. The guy isn’t looking at him, gaze fixed firmly ahead at the shelves of DVDs, but there isn’t anyone else in the shop. There’s never anyone else in the shop at this time.

"Why do you always come in at quarter after three on Tuesday?" Harry asks instead.

"I work at the gym round the corner," the guy says. "I’m a boxing instructor, and I have a free hour every day at three. Tuesdays just seem to be the quietest here."

"They are," Harry says. He sighs, unfolding from the counter, and comes over to stand next to the guy. "Can I help you find anything?"

"Liam," the guy says. Harry looks at him. The guy is looking back. "My name’s Liam."

"Hi, Liam. I’m Harry."

"I know." Liam smiles like a nervous twitch, flickers his gaze down to Harry’s name tag. Right. "I mean, I remember."

"Right," Harry says. "So, Liam. Can I help you?"

Liam looks back at the row of DVDs in front of him. “My girlfriend wanted me to figure some things out.”

"I remember," Harry starts, but Liam shakes his head.

"No, um, not like. Not with her, exactly. More. Uh." He takes a deep, slow breath, lets it out. "More, like, with me?"

"Like, what you like?’

"Yeah. Sort of like that."

"Like." Harry watches his profile carefully, the small movements of his eyelashes and throat. Quietly he asks, "Like who you like?"

He sees Liam startle, but he doesn’t pull away, just turns a surprised look on Harry. “How did you know? Oh god, is it that obvious?”

Harry rolls his lips into his mouth, trying hard to hold in a wildly inappropriate urge to laugh. “Liam,” he says, gesturing to the shelves of DVDs, “you’re in the gay movie section.”

Liam whips his head back around to the movies, eyes widening as he clearly really _sees_ them for the first time. “Oh my god,” he says, the familiar color creeping into his cheeks. “Oh my god, I didn’t even notice — I’m serious, I just — “

"It’s okay, I believe you," Harry reassures. He can’t quite swallow a grin, but Liam’s smiling now, small and rueful, but nice, a nice smile on a really very lovely mouth, if Harry can allow himself that observation. "So you came to a sex shop to sort out your sexuality," he says, not really a question.

Liam shrugs. “Couldn’t think of anywhere else to go,” he answers honestly. “I tried the internet first, but it wasn’t very helpful, so I thought, like. I’d look around this place, and if I liked some things, then maybe that would give me some answers? But mostly it was just kind of confusing and scary.”

Harry nods understandingly. “That was a pretty terrible plan,” he says. He surprises Liam into a loud laugh, which feels really good. “Seriously though. All this stuff, it’s not going to help you figure out whether you like girls, or guys, or both, or neither. Even if you found out you were into something, like, say — massive dildos.”

Liam assumes a look of pure horror. “I’m not into massive dildos!”

"But _say you were_ ,” Harry talks over him. “That wouldn’t make you gay. You know that, right? You could like having a massive dildo up your arse and still be into women.”

"I could?" At Harry’s nod, Liam’s face inexplicably falls. "But then — how am I supposed to figure it out?"

Taking a chance, Harry turns to face Liam and gestures for him to do the same. Face to face, he looks into Liam’s eyes. They’re nice eyes. Not as nice as his mouth, or, well, nice in a different way, but they’re warm, and kind, and even when his smile is embarrassed, little crinkles appear at their corners.

"Have you ever kissed a boy?" Harry asks. Liam shakes his head. "Would you like to?"

"I don’t know. Maybe."

Harry smiles. “Can _I_ kiss you, Liam?”

Liam flushes, but he nods. Harry reaches out to cup his face in one hand, and Liam closes his eyes. Slowly, gently, Harry leans in and kisses him. He keeps it light and sweet, just soft brushes of lips and warm breaths, a tiny suck at Liam’s bottom lip before he pulls away. By the time he breaks the kiss, Liam’s breathing hard.

"Did you like that?" he asks.

Liam nods slowly and opens his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. He swallows. “Does that mean I’m gay?”

Harry shrugs. “Maybe. Or you could be bisexual. Or you could just like kissing blokes. Or you could just like kissing me. I’m a pretty fantastic kisser, I’ve been told.”

"But then — then that doesn’t help me solve it at all!"

"Do you have to solve anything?"

"What do you mean?"

Harry shrugs again. “Does it really matter, if you figure it all out right now? You like kissing me. Maybe you like kissing some girls, too. Maybe you’d like kissing some other guys. Maybe you’d like doing other things with me. You don’t need to know it all at once, do you?” Harry tilts his head thoughtfully. “Although if you want some help figuring out that last one, I close the shop at eight o’clock.”

The pretty red flush that was fading from his cheeks flares back to life. “That’s very kind of you,” Liam laughs. “Terribly selfless.”

"What can I say, I’m a giver."

Liam bites his lip on a smile, looking away. His gaze must catch on the clock by the register, because he sighs and says, “My break’s almost up. I should go.” He makes a move to leave, then stops. “Thanks,” he whispers.

Harry smiles, touching his shoulder lightly. “Glad I could help,” he offers as he moves back behind the register.

Liam’s almost out the door when he turns back inside. “Eight o’clock?” he asks.

Harry feels a well and truly stupid smile take over. “Yeah.”

Liam nods, and they grin at each other like idiots until the door swings shut.


	3. narry: music club/karaoke au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one is short and has no ending. soz.

It isn’t _Niall’s_ bar. He knows that. Just because he’s been showing up to Thursday open mic nights for months now, long enough to have regular fans and an open tab that he has little to no hope of ever paying off, doesn’t mean he has any claim to the place. It’s just that most of the people who try out kind of—well, they suck. Most of them never return, and none has lasted more than three weeks. It’s a very minor fiefdom, the rotating rag-tag group that makes up the Thursday night music lineup at Eli’s, but Niall is its king. Or its duke, or viscount—whatever kind of person rules a fiefdom.

And then the _new kid_ shows up.

He’s Niall’s age, around, maybe a bit older—it’s hard to tell under the scarves and the eye makeup and the _hair._ It’s possible he’s even a bit younger, maybe, but only by months if that. Not young enough to pull off the doe eyes and blinding smiles, the sweet tousles of his fringe right before he launches into something throaty and smoky and dripping in sex.

The name kid’s name is Harry, and he doesn’t suck. It doesn’t seem like an act he should be able to pull off: half sex-kitten in painted-on jeans and half regular baby animal, flopsy and sweet; but he makes it work. He’s got the pipes to back it up, knows when to cut loose and when to let his voice smoulder and drift to ash. He’s got one deep dimple and a ring for every finger, and next to him, Niall feels like a back country bumpkin with a beat-up guitar, Arlo Guthrie next to Harry’s Lizard King.

Niall holds his breath and crosses his toes, but the new kid passes the magical three-week mark, lasts out the month, and shows no indication of slowing down. He’s got a tab by now nearly as long as Niall’s, though he doesn’t owe as much as he might if he wasn’t always getting free drinks sent to him by older women. It makes Niall’s face burn, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind the attention, flirting with women twice his age in an outrageous manner that manages to come off as both cheeky and endearing.

They don’t talk. Niall doesn’t talk to many people, besides Zayn, the bartender, who keeps him supplied with crisps and pints and teases him about the day he becomes famous, how many times he’s gonna have to go platinum just to settle his tab. Zayn, like Harry, is all dark good looks, easily the prettiest man Niall’s ever known, but he has a softer, more approachable sort of sexiness. He wears thick-rimmed black glasses and t-shirts he silkscreens himself with comic book panels, and Niall once saw him laugh so hard he snorted beer foam out his nostrils. Zayn’s sexiness is an act of God, something he wears with good grace, not something he fine hones and wields like a weapon to cleave his admirers’ hearts.

It’s two months on since Harry started showing up on Thursdays, a quiet lull between sets that finds Niall tuning his guitar, when they have their first conversation that goes beyond basic introductions. Niall hears him sit down, but he doesn’t say anything or lookup from his work, fingers dancing over the strings and coaxing them with subtle nudges into perfect tune. He strums a few chords to check his work, satisfied, finally looking up when Harry leans in and clears his throat.

"Something I can help you with mate?" Niall asks.

"You’re really good," Harry says, gesturing needlessly to the guitar cradled against Niall’s belly. He’s still picking out a random, wandering tune, an easy habit he doesn’t have to think about. "How long have you been playing?"

“‘Bout ten years, almost,” Niall tells him. The words come with a familiar flush, a confused mix of pride and embarrassment, because, on the one hand: hell yeah, he’s good. He’s devoted half his life to this. And then the other side, fast on its heels: shouldn’t he have more than this to show for it?

"Do you ever write your own songs?" Harry asks.

"Sure," Niall says, and the hot feeling has now decidedly swayed to embarrassment. "Don’t play them round here though. Most folks, end of a long working day, they want something they can sing along to."

"I’d love to hear one sometime," Harry tells him.

"No," Niall says quickly—not even trying to be rude, just as a reflex, the same answer he’s given his family and mates and girlfriends who’ve asked to hear his songs. "Sorry," he tacks on. "Just, they’re personal."

He looks up from his guitar, fingertips gone white where they’re pressed to the frets, but Harry doesn’t look put off. He’s smiling, open and kind and just a little perplexed, like Niall’s the one who’s an enigma, something he needs to unlock and figure out.

"Of course they’re personal," Harry says. "What other kinds of songs can a person write? They’re always personal until you send them out into the world."


	4. nouis: pet hospital au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this fic makes mention of serious injury to an animal. it’s based on something that happened to a cat i owned, who, like the one in the story, came out okay and had a long healthy life. there are two paragraphs where descriptions of the injury might be considered graphic; i’ve put bolded apostrophes (**) around them in case you want to skip them. i’m sorry this literally just ends mid-conversation, endings are the hardest. includes louis/omc.

"Tomlinson," Niall calls, and immediately a young man with a mane of rain-soaked hair plastered about his face jumps up from his seat, a bundled towel cradled in his arms. Niall waves him over to the open exam room; after a beat of hesitation, the man next to him throws down his magazine and follows.

"Which one of you is Mr Tomlinson?" Niall asks, waving the pair to take a seat and flipping through the notes the receptionist jotted down.

"I’m Louis Tomlinson," the man holding the towel answers.

"Dr. Niall Horan," Niall introduces himself, nodding to both men because Louis’s arms are full, and the other bloke is barely paying him any attention, let alone offering a hand to shake. "So, you’ve got a kitty with an injured leg?"

"Bit more than injured, I’m afraid," Louis says with a grimace. "I didn’t see it, but I think she might have been hit by a car." As he talks, a distressed meow arises from the bundled towel, where Niall can just spot the furry tips of two ears poking out. Automatically, Louis bends his head to coo reassurance, though Niall notes the guy next to him rolling his eyes.

"Can you set her there on the table for me?" Niall busies himself getting out the scale and thermometer as Louis carefully deposits his bundle on the metal bench. He peels the towel back to reveal a skinny ball of orange and white fluff, a gangly thing somewhere between kitten and adulthood, with sharp yellow-green eyes that are dilated and glassy with pain.

 ****** The injury is immediately apparent: her right front leg is a mangled mess, hanging sickly from her shoulder. Niall scoops a hand under her small belly, keeping her tilted back on her rear to take any pressure off her front legs. She starts to mreowl piteously again as soon as Niall touches her, her little heart pounding against his palm. Louis’s face twists in distress, fingers twitching against the obvious urge to reach out for her. ******

"Hey there, sweetheart." Niall talks to her in a low, soothing voice, rubbing a thumb behind her ears as he feels the rest of her body over for injuries. "Let me just get a look at ya, there’s a good girl." He carefully stretches her hind legs, presses against her hips and back; she’s scrawny eve for a teenager, the points of her hips sharp under his fingers. "She’s quite a bit underweight," he tells Louis.

That prompts the man to send a blistering glare at his companion. “That’s what _I_ thought.”

"We can’t spend all our money on kibble," the other man responds. "She’s a bloody cat, she can catch mice or summat. That’s their _job_.”

"That’s actually not a good—" Niall starts, but Louis’s already answering, voice low and furious.

"I bet you don’t even feed her when I’m at work like you say," he accuses. "You’re trying to starve her into running off. You’ve _never_ wanted her.”

"She’s _not even our cat_ ,” the man shouts back.

"Erm," Niall interrupts. "Sorry, but _is_ she your cat? That’s important. I can’t perform surgery without her owner’s permission.”

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis insists, as emphatically as the other man says, “ _No_.”

"She’s not anyone else’s cat," Louis tells Niall. "She was born to a stray, but we caught her when she was a kitten and had her spayed, and she lives in _our_ garden and eats the food _I_ give her. That makes her _our_ cat.”

 ****** Niall lets them argue about it in low tones while he examines the cat’s wounded leg and listens to her heart. She’s not in as bad shape as he expected; whatever happened to her, and Niall thinks Louis might be right about a car, it seems to have pinched her leg tightly high up, preventing a lot of blood loss, and likely much of the pain she might otherwise have experienced. The hurt leg is still attached, but effectively dead; Niall doubts she can feel it or she’d’ve gone into shock by now. Still, she needs surgery soon. ******

"Hey vital signs are good," he breaks in when there’s a lull in the argument, both sides scowling at each other over folded arms. "She’s been pretty calm, considering the trauma, and I don’t think she’s in immediate danger, but the leg will have to come off as soon as possible. The longer it’s attached, the greater her chances of developing an infection, or going into shock. I’d like to take her into surgery right away."

"Of course," Louis says, reaching out to stroke his fingertips lightly over the cat’s cheek, but his companion frowns.

"How much is that going to cost?" he asks.

"Garret!" Louis shouts, looking stunned. "Are you serious right now?"

"There’s nothing wrong with asking, Lou! If this is gonna be £200, then we need to consider our options!"

"It’s, uh, probably going to cost considerably more than that," Niall interjects with a wince. "I’ll do what I can to keep the cost down, but just at a guess, I’d say it’ll about twice that."

"I don’t care how much it costs," Louis says firmly.

"Louis! You can’t be serious. £400 for a bloody cat? How are we supposed to make rent?"

"We can use the money we saved up for vacation next month," Louis says. His voice has gone deadly calm, nearly frozen; Niall feels like hiding in a corner from it, and he hasn’t done anything wrong. "And if you’re worried about rent, you can move back in with your sister. Problem solved."

The other man, Garret, looks near ready to explode at that, his face red with frustration he’s barely choking back. Niall doesn’t know what he’s going to do if someone throws a punch, his hands full of injured kitten. It doesn’t come to that, thankfully. With visible effort, the guy unfolds his fists and turns away.

"I can’t do this with you right now," he says. "I’m going to spend the night at Naomi’s. I’ll call you tomorrow when we’ve both cooled down."

"Don’t fucking bother!" Louis shouts at the man’s retreating back. He strikes Niall as someone who needs to always have the last word. When he turns back, though, his shoulders have fallen, and he looks smaller, defeated. He pushes a hand through his damp fringe, combing it back from his face. His eyes, when they meet Niall’s, are glazed and tired, but still such a clear, piercing blue.

"Do you need me to sign something for the surgery?" he asks.

Niall nods. “Liam’ll get you sorted out at the front desk.” He lifts the cat, gently cradling her to his chest. He hesitates, aware that it’s probably overstepping his bounds, but says it anyway. “It’s a really kind thing you’re doing, you know. Even if you’d just brought her in to put her out of pain—it’s more than most folks would do for a stray.”

Louis’s answering smile is edged with exhaustion, but real. “I can’t stand to see an animal in pain,” he says. “She’s a sweet girl. Sometimes she sits on the wall around our garden while I have my tea in the morning. She doesn’t deserve this.”

He swipes at his eyes and shakes his head. “Take good care of her, yeah?”

Swallowing thickly, Niall nods and promises he will.

—

A week later, Louis’s back in the clinic for a check-up with the cat, now curled  up contentedly on a cozy pillow in a proper carrier instead of an old towel, and much happier with circumstances in general. Niall usually only works the after-hours emergency shifts, but he finds an excuse to be at the clinic in the morning when he sees Louis’s name in the appointment book. He can admit to himself, at least, that the case has become personal, and he wants to see how the animal’s faring. And maybe how Louis’s faring, too.

"She’s making an incredible recovery," Niall enthuses, inspecting the row of thick black stitches closing the incision site. The amputation is high up, near the shoulder, and the fur the techs shaved away for the surgery is already beginning to fill in. Once the drains and stitches have been removed and the fur is at full fluff again, it’ll hardly be noticeable, except for the absence of the leg. "The site looks really clean, scabbing nicely, and I’d expect her to not have much of an appetite, but she’s actually put on half a kilo." He smiles up at Louis, who’s positively beaming. "Guess your boyfriend’s come around on the issue, then?"

"Wouldn’t know; I haven’t seen him since he picked his stuff up a few days ago."  Louis’s voice is light and conversational, but there’s a mulish set to his jaw when he meets Niall’s gaze, as if he expects to hear, once again, that he’s overreacting. He’s not got to worry about hearing it from Niall.

"Good for you," Niall says, ducking his head a little to try to hide his smile at Louis’s surprised reaction, but probably failing. "Guy seemed like a bit of a wanker, if you want the truth. But I may be biased. He didn’t seem like an animal person."

"He wasn’t," Louis says absently. He squints a searching look at Niall. "You don’t think it’s silly to end a six-month relationship over a stray cat?"

"I don’t think it’s silly to end a relationship with someone who doesn’t respect your feelings and what’s important to you." Niall smiles and nods to where the cat is butting her head happily against Louis’s fingers. "Besides, she doesn’t look much like a stray anymore. Reckon she’s found her home."

"Yeah," Louis says softly, rubbing the pad of his thumb over her brow while she purrs. "She’s a better roommate, too. We’re both happier."

"Happy for you." Niall clears his throat, going a bit pink at the level of soppiness in his voice just then. "Well, uh, everything looks great, like I said. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and she’ll be back up and running around in no time."

"Thank you," Louis says. "And if I have any problems or questions…?"

His voice sounds suddenly closer; Niall flickers a glance up from the chart to find him leaning in across the exam table, a smile on his lips. Niall blinks thickly. “Uh, you…know where to find me?” he tries. Louis frowns, and Niall reaches out, grasping his wrist. “You can call any time, day or night? What? What was I supposed to say?”

"I was hoping you did house calls," Louis says. He looks down at where Niall’s hand is still curled around his wrist, smirking.

"Ah," Niall says, laughing a little with relief. "I’m really not supposed to, but I think I could probably make an exception. Only if you paid me with dinner, though."

"I think I could manage that. What do you say, is it a date?" Louis asks the cat. She blinks twice, then yawns wide, flashing sharp little teeth.

Niall and Louis shrug at each other. Good enough.


	5. narry: vineyard au

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> harry's taking a gap year, and his estranged father has decided that if harry's going to stay with him at the vineyard he owns in napa, he has to put work in. niall is working his way around the world. unfinished, and there's a gap in the middle. also, i don't speak spanish, so i apologize if it's incorrect.

It's late July when the trucks roll in, a line of dusty pickups snaking slowly through the valley, only the haze of headlights to guide them through the thick predawn fog. Harry sits on top of the gate and watches as they crawl closer. A contingent of four trucks breaks off and begins to weave its way toward the Styles family vineyard, each car carrying five or six workers. Some work year-round at the estate, pruning and tending to the vines as they grow. Most, though, arrived just a couple of days ago for the start of the harvest. Like Harry, they're here for the dog days of summer, July through the end of September—some of the hottest days in the valley.

At 5 AM, though, it's still cold and damp enough to make him shiver in his jumper. He wishes he'd thought to bring a scarf; there's no time to run back to the house for one now. He jumps down from his perch as the trucks approach, swings the gate wide and holds it open as they rumble past. By the time the last one's through and he's secured the gate again, the first trucks have already parked and workers are climbing down from the beds to begin the day's work.

There are twenty or so in all, dark-eyed men and women in thick sweatshirts with hoods pulled up against the chill, most of their faces hidden behind bandanas. It's hard to tell from just the slice of their eyes and foreheads showing, but most look around 25 to 30, a few maybe closer to Harry's age. Harry recognizes Ignacio, the lead winemaker he met last week, a robust man who's headed his father's vineyard for 12 summers now. He hurries over to greet him, conscious of the gazes he's drawing, how awkward he must look waving hello while everyone else begins to organize themselves with silent competence.

"Hi," he says, lifting his voice as the breeze tries to tear it away. "Good morning."

"Good morning," Ignacio says, inclining his head courteously. His gaze seems to linger on Harry's bare head and face, but he only says, "Are you ready to begin, señor Styles?"

"Oh," Harry feels his face flush, imagines that the quiet movement around them has developed a charged quality, every eye turning to him. "Please, just Harry," he says quickly. "I'm quite ready, yeah, looking forward to it. Where do I start?"

"You have a driving license, yes?" Harry nods. "You can drive the tractor. It pulls the bed the workers empty their crates into, so you have to go slow, but make sure no one gets ahead of you."

Ignacio points to the tractor crouched at the mouth between two rows of vines. A woman is already sitting in the cab, but she sticks her head out when Ignacio shouts her name, Carmelita, directing a torrent of Spanish at him that he volleys back with shooing gestures. After some grumbling she climbs down from the seat, shooting Harry a dirty look before she tugs the bandana up over her nose.

"Oh, have I—is that normally her job? It's okay, I can do something else, really—" Harry sputters, but Ignacio swiftly cuts him off.

"You drive the tractor," he says firmly. "It works better this way."

"El tractor hace el trabajo," the woman, Carmelita, mutters just loud enough for Harry to hear. "El hijo del jefe se sienta cómodo."1

He swings an apologetic gaze on her, miming confusion. "I'm sorry? I, um, I don't speak Spanish—"

"Él no tiene una nalgas como tú, Carmelita." A high, clear guy's voice calls out from behind Harry. "¡No lo esconda de nosotros, rorro!"2

"¡Las manos quietas, Niall!"3 Carmelita shouts back, sounding fierce as laughter ripples out from the workers, but above the bandana her eyes are squinted in a grin. Harry looks over his shoulder, trying to see who called out to her. A pair of startling blue eyes set in a redly tanned face catches his gaze; as Harry stares uncomprehendingly, one of them closes in a wink.

"¡Vamanos muchachos!" Ignacio shouts, and the group moves en masse, each worker grabbing up a shallow plastic container from a stack before heading toward the vines. Ignacio tosses Harry the keys to the tractor and he fumbles the catch, nearly dropping them before capturing them against his chest. "Remember," he tells Harry, nodding toward the tractor, "slow and steady."

Pulling himself into the cab of the tractor with shaking hands, Harry tries to tell his heart the same thing.

—

It's slow, boring work, once his initial nerves wear off, and the early part of the morning drags on interminably as Harry falls into the rhythm of the job. He swings his gaze between the windows and the rear-view mirror in a steady metronome, inches the tractor forward every few seconds to keep up with the steady progress of the pickers, making sure no one gets ahead. The best part is when they finish a row and he gets to bring the tractor around in a wide circle before slotting it carefully between a new pair of vines.

Dawn burns off the lingering fog, touching the hills deep green and burnished gold. The temperature rises slowly with the sun, the small space in the cab growing humid, sticky. Sometime around 10, Ignacio calls for their lunch break, and Harry realizes as he's climbing down from the tractor that he's sweating through his jumper. He looks around; everyone else is down to t-shirts and ball caps, and he feels foolish peeling off his jumper, knows there's a dark line of sweat arrowing down his spine.

He follows the other men and women to the trucks, ridiculously eager for both a break and a meal, considering how little work he's put in compared to them. He isn't used to waking so early, and he hadn't been hungry enough to force down more than a dry piece of toast this morning. That was nearly six hours ago, and his stomach is making its displeasure heard, gurgling loud enough that a man nearby glances his way and chuckles. It's at his expense, but it doesn't feel malicious, so Harry ignores his embarrassment and grins back.

He queues up at the end of the line where a woman is handing out brown bag lunches and bottles of Jarritos. By the time he gets to the truck, there's only lime left, which is not his favorite flavor, but it's sweating cold and it will probably taste like the nectar of gods on his dry tongue. There are no more brown bags.

"Um," Harry says, "sorry." He doesn't know what he's apologizing for; it's just awkward, the way they're staring at each other. "I…probably should have thought of this, huh. How long is lunch?"

"Twenty minute," the woman says. She turns her wrist to check a digital watch. "18 minute," she amends.

18 minutes isn’t long enough to hike up to the house and back, let alone find anything to eat. He could ask to borrow one of the trucks, but that would just make his dumb mistake conspicuous, and he doesn't want more attention.

"It's fine," he says to the woman's frown. "More thirsty than anything, really. Thanks for the pop." He waves the Jarritos at her as he backs away, smiling, and joins the other men and women where they're propped against the sides of the trucks, sheltered in the little shade they offer.

He scans the line of lunching workers for an open spot, trying not to shift from foot to foot like it's his first day of Year 7 and he doesn’t know anyone in the caf. Even though that's pretty much exactly what it is. A few heads lift as he deliberates, studying him in turn, and it only makes him burn hotter. He spots a gap that might be big enough to wedge himself into and just goes for it, not even taking note of who's nearby until he's folding himself into the narrow space, and a pair of pale blue eyes flash up to meet his.

"Hi," Harry says, waving his fingers around the bottle of pop.

"That your lunch?" the guy asks, nodding to the Jarritos. He's definitely the same person who made everyone laugh this morning, although his voice sounds slightly different in English; a bit rougher, with a distinct Irish accent.

Harry looks down at the bottle in his hand. "Yeah," he says, trying not to sound mournful. He takes a long sip. He hates artificial citrus flavoring, but he's happy for the rush of sugar over his tongue.

"That's fucking sad," the guy says, and he sounds proper upset, like missing a lunch is the worst fate imaginable. "That's the saddest lunch I've ever seen, and I ate two bags for candy floss for lunch once and puked. But at least you could kinda chew it."

Harry's torn by the pity in the guy's voice. On the one hand, it's bloody embarrassing that he's a 19 year old grown person and he doesn't have the survival skills or common sense to make himself a lunch before work. It's a bit more embarrassing that it's probably because this is the first day of the first job he's ever had. On the other hand, he's feeling a bit sorry for himself right now, hot and hungry, and it feels nice that someone else is, too.

"It's alright," he shrugs, taking another long swig and emptying half the bottle. "Only two more hours, and then I'll have a big proper supper." He sucks a bit of sticky pop from his knuckle and wipes his hand on his jeans before extending it. "I'm Harry."

"I know." The guy grins and shrugs at Harry's surprised look. "You're the big boss's son. Word travels fast." Harry feels a squirm of discomfort at the title, but Niall doesn't sound snide about it, and he takes Harry's hand in a quick, firm shake. "I'm Niall."

—

"I was meant to meet you," Harry says dreamily. He feels something like high on honest exhaustion and the warm breath of the valley breeze, fragrant with turning fruit. "You're going to teach me important things. How to grow grapes to perfect sweetness, how to turn soil and sunshine into wine, so I can finally become the heir my father's always wanted and take over the vineyard when he retires." The words feel rich as Bordeaux in his mouth, roll off his tongue as smoothly as a monologue in a movie. Niall's going to save him.

"Mate," Niall says, "I don't know the first fuckin thing about making wine."

"But." Harry sits up a little, has to flail a hand out and sink his fingers into the dirt for balance. Too many glasses of Barbera have left his head thick and floating vaguely above his shoulders. "But all that stuff you told me, out in the vines—"

"I know about picking grapes. I know about picking lots of things. Strawberries are the worst, little bastards. They call them _la fruta del diablo_ ," Niall's eyes shine like wicked chips of glass in the slanting afternoon sun, "the devil's fruit. You spend hours hunched over, reaching and crab-walking, only get a chance to stand up straight when you run your full box to the truck."

"You're amazing," Harry breathes out, enraptured by the image.

Niall's expression freezes: not motionless, but _cold_. The humor that lined his eyes at the memory disappears, his faint smile snapping so fast Harry feels like he should hear the crack.

"I'm not your inspiration," he says, icy and stinging. "I spent two weeks picking strawberries on a plot down in Kern County and walked off the job. Couldn't hack it. There were women there only a few years older that couldn't stand up straight anymore, couldn’t lift their full trays above their heads with aching, and they still out-picked me." Niall's voice is full of reproach, but not for himself; it's all clearly for Harry. "It isn't fuckin noble, doing this work for a summer so I can pay my way to my next stop, and it sure as shit isn't noble to do it for one day and act like you've figured out some big secret to life."

Harry tries to stammer out a reply, tries to reach for Niall as the other boy pushes himself to his feet, but the look he aims down is so flat and pitiless that he jerks his hand away, feels ashamed for the brief moment his fingers brushed Niall's knee. "If you wanted to spend a day seeing how the other half lived so you could tell the story later, do everyone a favor and don't show up again and slow us down. If you're ready to actually put in some work, then do it and quit complaining. And bring a fuckin lunch, 'cause I'm not sharing mine again."

Niall stares him down silently, long enough that Harry feels compelled to mumble, "Okay." Only then does he nod and scoop up his lunch sack, turning away to the row of trucks that stand ready to take the workers back to their bunk houses.

Harry takes a long, hot shower and falls into his soft bed as soon as the sun has set, weighted down by exhaustion. It still takes him hours to find sleep.

1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: The tractor works, the boss's son sits on his ass.  
> 2: He doesn't have an ass like you, Carmelita. Don't hide it from us, baby!  
> 3: Hands off, Niall!


	6. lirry: kissing booth au

Liam regrets every life decision that has ever involved Louis Tomlinson.

"It'll be a laugh!" Louis told him when he'd first approached Liam with the ridiculous idea of a kissing booth for the school carnival. By which he meant, _I'll be laughing my arse off at you_. "Everyone loves a kissing booth. It's traditional! And it'll bring in loads more donations that Harry's stupid bake sale."

"It's not the idea I've got a problem with," Liam said, though he privately thought it was stupid at best and disastrous at worst, "but why do _I_ have to be in it?"

"Because you're a lovely, beautiful person." Louis leaned across the lunch table to take Liam's face between his hands. "With amazing lips that every girl in school dreams about kissing." He smushed Liam's cheeks forward until his mouth pursed and opened, fish-like. Niall laughed and tried to poke a chip between them before Liam spit it out. "And you're a wonderful friend who wants to help me out."

"Zayn already turned you down, didn't he," Liam asked, jerking his face from Louis's grasp.

"Woulda done, but Perrie beat me to the punch," Zayn chimed in, "literally," which explained the blooming bruise on Louis's bicep.

Louis sighed heavily. " _Please_ , Leemo," he begged. "We've already got three girls and two blokes, we just need one more boy to fill the booth. It's for _charity._ "

And that wasn't playing fair, because in addition to the sweet, beseeching look Louis rarely broke out, he knew Liam couldn't turn down anything for charity. Especially since this year the donations were going to the local girls and boys club, where Liam volunteered answering phones on a hotline for teens dealing with depression and bullying.

"Fine," Liam said at last, feeling that sinking weight in his belly that usually accompanied agreeing to one of Louis's idiotic plans. "Tell me how it works."

How it worked was like this: Each volunteer had 100 tickets that fairgoers could purchase for £1 each. The tickets were color-coded (Liam's were green) and limited so that everyone couldn't queue up at a single booth, and no volunteer would have to give more than 100 kisses.

It was supposed to ensure that the lines were more or less even and moved quickly, and so far it's mostly worked. Looking around, Liam sees that Leigh Anne's line is a bit longer than the other girls, but not by too much, and everyone has been fairly busy all afternoon.

Everyone, that is, except for Liam.

The fair opened at 10 that morning with a stream of people that's gradually grown into a flood. It's a quarter after 11 now, the games and events all in full swing, and Liam hasn't had a single person line up for a kiss.

He didn't expect to get as many people as the girls – they'd sold many of their tickets before the fair had even open, in the halls at school the day before. He didn't even expect to get as many girls lined up as Aaron or Dontrelle, who were both more popular and better-looking than Liam. But he thought he'd have a _few_. Maybe even a couple blokes. Liam's one of the few guys at their school who's openly bisexual, and even if some people still aren't comfortable with that, he thought a boy or two might pluck up the courage to buy a kiss. He's almost certain that Sean Carter has been flirting with him in maths for months now, but he saw him queue up in front of Aaron's booth, exchanging blushing kisses on the cheek. He'd glanced in Liam's direction right after, offering him a smile and flushing even harder, and Liam had felt a brief surge of hope – but then Sean had run off and faded back into the crowd.

He tries not to let it get to him, but by noon he's hot and cranky and bloody _humiliated_ , and he's just about ready to call it quits. This is the last time he lets Louis talk him into anything like this ever again. He's just about resolved to pack up and go help Harry with the bake sale, which had been his original plan before all this nonsense, when the crowd ripples and Harry comes running up, sweaty and out of breath.

"You're still here," he gasps, leaning over to rest his elbows on Liam's table.

"Yeah," Liam mutters, grumpy. "Not that I needed to be. Could've put a store mannequin in this chair, it might have been busier."

"No one's been by?" Harry asks. He straightens up, looking at Liam with sharp curiosity.

"Just Louis, about half an hour ago, to bring me an iced coffee." Liam can't meet Harry's eyes, too embarrassed to see the surge of pity when he realizes what a loser Liam is. If there'd been any lingering doubt in Harry's mind, this will put it to rest. "He told me to stick it out, that at least one person had bought tickets, but I think he was just trying to be nice. I was about to head over to help you, actually."

"I just sold the last cupcake and closed up," Harry says, and Liam feels his heart sink to a previously unknown depth. He can't even distract himself from how epically lame he is now. "I got here as fast as I could, almost bullied someone's aunt into buying a whole dozen so I could finish early and come over here."

"If you wanted a show, you needn't have rushed," Liam says glumly. He nods toward the other booths, where his classmates are still doling out kisses. "You can go laugh at them, I s'pose, although you already missed the fireworks. Perrie bought a kiss from _everyone_ ," he explains at Harry's questioning look.

"Little minx," Harry grins fondly. He shakes it off, turning oddly serious again. "That's not why I wanted to come by early, though. I was a bit afraid this would happen, that you'd… take it poorly."

Liam closes his eyes. It's very nearly more than he can take, the careful lilt in Harry's voice, and he feels like any second he might cry. "I'm fine," he croaks out, voice breaking, and has to swallow and clear his throat before it steadies. "I'm fine. I suppose I should have seen it coming, too. You're right, of course. Who would want to…"

"Liam, no," Harry interrupts. "That's not what I meant at all. That's not—you don't understand."

"What don't I understand?" He feels poised on the razor edge between crying and laughing; he still can't open his eyes. "That I'm a bloody idiot for letting Louis talk me into this? That I should have known better to think anyone would want to…with _me_ of all—"

"Hold out your hands."

Liam sighs, feeling more exhausted than anything. "I don't want to play a game, Harry, I just want to go home."

"Hold out your hands," Harry insists. "Together, palms up. If you still want to go home after, I won't stop you."

If for no other reason than to put this humiliation to rest and escape, Liam does as he's told. There's a rustle of movement, a scratchy papery sound, and then something falls into his cupped hands. Or, not some _thing_ , a lot of some _things_ ; small, light, sharp-edged little objects. Liam's heart has begun to race without his knowledge or consent; he can't stop himself from opening his eyes.

His hands are full of tickets. There are too many to hold, actually; a bunch have spilled over onto the table. They're all green.

He looks up at Harry; the other boy's chewing nervously at the side of his thumb, but he holds Liam's gaze. "What…?" Liam asks, feeling his brow knit in confusion. "Where did you get all these?"

"I bought them." His cheeks are rapidly turning deeper shades of pink, but he doesn't look away. "Yesterday, right after Louis picked them up. I actually, um, I went with him to get them so I could make sure."

"Make sure…?" Liam blinks, glancing down at the tickets in his hands, scattered across the table. There are dozens, scores of them. "Harry, how many did you…?"

"All of them." Harry squirms a little, wriggles his shoulders back like he wants to duck away from Liam's look, but won't let himself. He's so brave; even with the confusion and dawning hope swirling in Liam's mind the thought comes to him abstractly. He's always loved that about Harry, that he doesn't back down from being himself, even when he's scared. "All 100. You don't have to kiss me 100 times. I just wanted to be sure."

Liam laughs at that, can't help it, but he's looking in Harry's eyes so he can see he isn't laughing at _Harry_. "Don't think you needed to buy out the lot of them to make sure you got a kiss," he teases gently. His heart has flown up from the depths of his stomach like an elevator, rising so fast it makes his ears pop. "Just one would have done, mate, I wouldn't have turned you away."

But Harry's shaking his head at that, leaning in closer. "No, I wanted—" He bites his lip against a silly grin, reaching out, and Liam feels his breath catch and hold in chest when Harry touches his face. "I wanted to make sure no one else got to do this," he says softly, almost a whisper, before dipping down and catching Liam's mouth with his.

It's awkward, and sweet, the bump of noses and teeth before Harry's other hand cradles the back of Liam's head and lines them up just right. Then it's a revelation, the way their mouths fit together, soft, dry presses of lips melting into slick heat. Liam feels a moan rising his chest at the careful way Harry's tongue sweeps against his, feels the stiff cardstock tickets crumple in his hands when Harry finally draws back, looking at Liam with dark eyes and a mouth gone wet and red from use.

"Wow," Harry says slowly, dragging it into several syllables. "That was so worth two months of chore money."

A laugh catches Liam by surprise, leaves him breathless and shaking. He'll blame it on the laugh, anyway. "Idiot," he says with all the warmth burning through his chest. "I can't believe you paid £100 just to kiss me."

Harry shrugs, grinning, totally unselfconscious. "£102, actually. I also bought one of my own banana peanut butter bars for you." He pulls the wrapper cookie from the pocket of his jumper, setting it on the table.

Liam nods consideringly at his favorite cookie. He carefully sweeps the tickets into the bin at his booth—sadly empty and useless up until now—and beckons Harry closer once his hands are free. "That was a really good idea," he says thoughtfully.

"Yeah?" Harry asks, a little husky, swaying closer when Liam urges.

"Yeah," Liam tells him. "I'm going to need something to keep my strength up if we're going to get through 99 more kisses before the fair closes."

Harry's whole face lights up with his smile as Liam curls a hand in his shirt and drags him in for kiss #2 (of 100).


	7. lilo: babysitter au

"I am so sorry," Mrs. Prakash says again. “I don’t know how this happened. I told my husband to request one of you, not both!"

"It’s really quite alright," Liam reassures her. "Just a bit of a mix-up. We’ll work it out."

"I did request one of them, ji," Mrs. Prakash’s husband insists, slightly exasperated, as he shrugs on his coat. “It’s not my fault the website is buggy."

"The website!" Mrs. Prakash exclaims. "Of course you would have to bring a computer into it, instead of just using the phone!"

She gives an exaggerated eye roll, but she grins at Liam and the boy standing next to him – Louis, Liam’s pretty sure that’s what he said – when her husband huffs out an aggrieved sigh.

"So fussy!" Mr. Narayan complains. He makes a production of shaking his head, even as he wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulders. "I tell you boys, don’t ever marry a beautiful woman. It’s no end of headaches!" He winks at Liam before glancing at his wife; husband and wife exchange such a fond look at the teasing that Liam finds he’s smiling despite himself.

"I’ll keep that in mind," Louis says from beside him with an easy grin. "But like Liam said, it’s really no trouble Mr. Narayan, Mrs. Prakash. We’ll get it sorted between us, don’t worry, just go and enjoy your film."

"You’re sure?" Mrs. Prakash checks, shouldering her purse. "You both know where the emergency numbers are, yes? And Arjun’s extra inhaler, if he plays outside? I will keep my phone on vibrate in case—"

"They’re fine, ji," Mr. Narayan soothes, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "They’ve both done this before, and the twins love them."

"We’re really fine," Liam agrees. "Honest. Have a lovely evening."

"All right, then. Thank you, boys. We will see you at 9." With a wave, Mrs. Prakash follows her husband to the car, and Liam locks the door securely behind them.

"Lovely couple," Louis says at his back, and Liam nods his agreement. He loves babysitting for Mr. Narayan and Mrs. Prakash; the twins are great, and Mrs. Prakash always sends him home with a box of homemade sweets. He spotted it on the dining table when he walked in. "So, now that’s settled, you can head home."

"Yeah," Liam says absently. Then he stops and actually processes it, turning to Louis with a frown. "Wait, what?"

"Home," Louis repeats. "There’s no reason for both of us to stay, and I’ve watched them loads of times."

"So have I," Liam says. "Why should I go? Anyway, we were both hired."

"On accident," Louis says impatiently. “Weren’t you even listening? We don’t both need to be here, and it’s not like the agency is going to pay us both for one job."

"So you go home, then. I showed up first."

"I’ve been with the agency longer."

Liam crosses his arms over his chest, frowning. “I need the money."

"And you think I babysit out of charity?" Louis looks halfway between exasperated and plain annoyed. "Look, I’ll rock-paper-scissors you for it."

"We’re not playing rock-paper-scissors to decide who babysits! That’s childish. Let’s just find the twins and ask them who they’d rather have."

Louis rolls his eyes, with quite a bit less humor and more drama than Mrs. Prakash had earlier, and throws his hands in the air. "Fine, have it your way. I'm definitely going to win, though. I’m the funnest babysitter ever."

"I'm fun," Liam grumbles, following Louis downstairs to the bonus room, where the twins are watching a movie. "How do you know you’re more fun than me?"

Louis glances back over his shoulder, giving Liam a quick up-and-down. "You’re wearing plaid," he says crisply, flicking the word from the end of his tongue like it tastes bad.

"What does that have to do with anything?" Liam asks, bewildered.

"Somya! Arjun! Your favorite babysitter is here!" Louis calls, waking the twins from their Disney trance.

"Hey, that’s cheating!" Liam hip-checks Louis aside so he isn’t blocking the stairwell. "Hey guys, I’m here too! What are you watching?"

"Liam!!" Arjun cheers, popping upright on the sofa. "We’re watching Frozen! Come sing with me!"

"Louis!" Somya yells, jumping down and running at Louis, who lets himself be tackled. "He won’t let me put in any other movie. Can we play football?"

Over the twins’ heads, Liam and Louis exchange a look. Liam raises both his brows. After a long moment, Louis grimaces, then nods.

"Sure angel. Let’s leave Liam and Arjun to watch their boring old movie, and you and me’ll have a kick around in the garden, yeah? Sound like fun?"

"YES!" Somya shouts happily, immediately climbing on Louis’s back for a ride up the stairs.

Liam isn’t too proud to stick his tongue out at them as they go.

—

They start the movie over and sing every song together, until Liam’s voice is growing throaty and his face aches a bit from smiling. Arjun flops back against the couch with a happy sigh, looking up at Liam with shining eyes.

"Elsa is the best," he says, like he does every time they watch Frozen. "I wish I could be an ice princess."

"Well, you look very magical and regal in your crown," Liam tells him, nodding his chin at the blue plastic costume tiara carefully clipped to Arjun’s hair. He glances at his watch. "And it’s about time for me to start on the royal supper. Let’s go find your sister, your majesty."

They troop upstairs and out into the garden, where Louis and Somya are playing a game of keep-away that seems to mostly involve Louis dribbling up and down the grass and Somya running after him, throwing herself at his legs and shrieking when he slips away. Even just fooling around, Liam can tell Louis’s good; he’s light and quick on his feet, changing directions abruptly to dodge Somya’s attacks with subtle touches. He doesn’t even look like it’s taking anything out of him to run around, breathing easy and laughing with his head tipped back into the sunlight when Somya pounds a small fist against the ground in frustration.

Liam doesn’t realize how long he’s been stood there staring until Louis finally glances their way and frowns, bringing the ball to a quick stop under his foot.

"You let him wear the tiara?"

Louis says it with so much consternation that it brings Liam up short. He glances at Arjun, then back at Louis. "It’s his Elsa crown."

"Arj, we talked about this. You know what the other kids are gonna say."

"Arjun," Liam says calmly. He hopes it sounds calm, anyway, not the vicious protectiveness fizzying up inside. "What do we say to bullies?"

Arjun frowns, his brow furrowing in the start of a pout, but he folds his arms defiantly. "I’m happy with who I am," he says carefully, the way they’ve practiced. "I’m not going to change to—to make you like me."

"That’s right," Liam beams, giving his hair a light ruffle, mindful of not disrupting the tiara. "Now go inside and wash up, you can finish your homework while I start supper."

Arjun’s face screws up at the mention of homework, but he heads back inside without much protest, despite Somya laughing. Her laughter abruptly cuts off when Louis chimes in, "You too, Som."

Liam and Somya turn identical surprised faces on Louis. "But Louis—” she begins to whine, eyes gone wide and pleading.

"Don’t try that face on me, I’ve got four little sisters; it stopped working years ago. Go on with you. Get your homework done and I’ll let you have a pudding after supper." Louis pokes a finger into her cheek, making her dimple appear on a giggle, then waves her away. She lets out a long-suffering sigh, but manages to drag herself after her brother.

"They already had pudding with their lunch, they’re not supposed to have two desserts," Liam scolds. Gently. More like reminds, not that he should have to remind someone who claims to have babysat so much for the Narayans.

"It’ll probably kill them both," Louis agrees in such a grave tone that Liam has to look over; he rolls his eyes so hard it must hurt. So that was sarcasm, then. "God, you’re dull. It’s a pudding, Liam. Live a little. I don’t know how the twins have survived you this long."

"You’re one to talk," Liam snaps back, crossing his arms over his chest before he realizes how defensive it looks. He tries to relax his posture but he’s too wound up, bristling at the familiarity with which this boy says his name and flings insults at him. "Okay, I care about the rules. Maybe that does make me dull. But it’s only because I care about their well-being."

"And you think I don’t?" Louis turns to face Liam square on, and he suddenly seems much closer than he was a moment ago.

"I didn’t say that," Liam says, though he clearly implied it. He’s on the verge of backing down—they really should get started on supper—but something sticks at him, and he can’t let it go. "I’m only saying—I’m not the one who wants to change who they are."

He expects—well, he’s not entirely sure what he expects, actually. He doesn’t know Louis well enough. But a reaction of some sort, at least. Maybe another eyeroll, or a sneer; maybe even a jibe full of sharp, ugly words. He doesn’t expect the sudden sober look that comes over Louis’s face, the concern deep in his fierce blue eyes.

"They laugh at him," Louis says, voice thinned and quiet. "Some of the big kids call him queer. It’s only teasing now, but what about when he gets older? When it stops being just words?"

Liam studies Louis’s face. "Then maybe he can take boxing lessons, the way I did," he says slowly. Louis’s eyes flicker, maybe with surprise, maybe understanding, but he doesn’t say anything. Liam feels his mouth curl in an unhappy smile. "Hard to pick on the queer kid with your arm in a sling." Liam blinks. "Not that I encourage violence. I’d rather he walk away, but sometimes—"

"They don’t let you," Louis finishes for him, and, yeah, that was recognition he saw in Louis’s gaze. The other boy offers him the same sad half-smile. "Or maybe he’ll learn to talk shit and run fast," he offers quietly, and his smile tugs up, a little more real when Liam chuckles.

"Maybe," he agrees. He glances over his shoulder to the open sliding door, only partly because he doesn’t want Louis to see his blush. "Maybe we should get inside before those two find a way to tear the house down."

"Not without me," Louis protests indignantly, and Liam can’t hold in a laugh as they head inside together, even when Louis reaches out and, for no reason that Liam can discern, grabs his nipple in a quick twisting pinch.

"Ow! What was that for?" he demands, but it doesn’t sound very fierce when he can’t stop laughing.

Louis slants a secret grin at him. It warms Liam from the inside, makes him blush through his giggles. "Maybe you’re not so very dull after all, Liam."

"I’ve been trying to say," Liam tells him. "Maybe you’re not so terrible either. Maybe—maybe we could even do this again sometime." He can feel the blush reaching his ears, but he holds Louis’s gaze, even when he steps in close just before they reach the kitchen, slotting himself between Liam’s feet.

"Maybe we could," Louis agrees.  
He tilts his head back to meet Liam’s eyes, and oh, he’s so close, just the perfect height for Liam to lean down and—

"Maybe even without a pair of seven-year-olds about," Louis says, smirking and stepping back before lifting his voice to an obnoxious level. "I believe we were promised supper. Who fancies a pizza?"

From the kitchen just behind them, Arjun and Somya’s voices rise up in twin cheers. Liam groans. "Mrs. Prakash already made—" he begins, but Louis slaps a hand over his mouth, effectively cutting him off.

"Oh no, pudding and pizza!" he exclaims, pulling a shocked face that is not even a little bit funny before melting into an easy smile. "Come on, Liam. Live a little."


End file.
